Media Secret: Hidden Johansson

The Sound of Healing

The group art therapy session had been surprisingly cathartic. For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of connection, not just with others but with myself. It had helped, even if just a little, to lift the weight I carried. But Dr. Weiss wasn't done with us yet.

The next session she had planned was something entirely different—music therapy. The concept intrigued me. Music had always been a part of my life, a background to both the good times and the bad, but I had never thought of it as a tool for healing.

The session took place in a room that was markedly different from the others in the rehab center. It was lined with instruments of all kinds—guitars, drums, keyboards, and even a few traditional instruments I couldn't name. The walls were covered in soft acoustic panels, and the lighting was dim, creating an atmosphere that was both calming and intimate.

We all took our seats in a loose circle. Dr. Weiss was there too, but she had brought someone else with her, a music therapist named Rachel. Rachel was in her mid-thirties, with curly brown hair pulled back in a loose bun and a warm smile that put me at ease immediately.

"Welcome, everyone," Rachel began, her voice gentle yet confident. "Today we're going to explore how music can help us express emotions that might be difficult to put into words. You don't need to have any musical experience—this is about connection, not perfection."

She moved to the center of the circle and picked up an acoustic guitar, strumming a few chords that resonated softly through the room. "Music has a way of reaching parts of us that words sometimes can't. It can soothe, it can agitate, it can bring memories to the surface, or help us release emotions we didn't even know we were holding onto."

She then invited us to choose instruments. There was no pressure; we could play, listen, or just observe. Slowly, people began to reach out for the instruments. Mark picked up a djembe drum, his large hands resting on the skin like it was a familiar weight. Becca went for the keyboard, her fingers brushing the keys with a tentative grace. I hesitated, unsure of what to choose. I'd always played with my mother, and the idea of playing something in front of others made me uneasy.

Rachel seemed to sense my hesitation and handed me a guitar. "Start simple," she said with an encouraging smile. "You'd be surprised what you can express with something as basic as this."

Th guitar felt hevey in my hands, but I nodded and gave it a small strum, the vibrations making a soft, bright sound. I was still unsure, but I felt more at ease knowing I wasn't expected to be the next Jimi Hendrix.

Once everyone had an instrument, Rachel began playing a gentle, repetitive melody on her guitar. The notes were soft, almost hypnotic, and after a few moments, the others started to join in. The drumbeat came first, a steady rhythm that anchored the music, then the keyboard with its ethereal chords. I added the guitar that lay in my hands, keeping time with the beat, the sound blending into the whole without overpowering it.

For a while, we played like this, a simple, unspoken collaboration that required no words. The music was soothing, the collective sound filling the room and drowning out the chaos that usually filled my mind. There was something primal about it, something that bypassed the logical part of my brain and went straight to the emotional core.

As we played, Rachel began to sing, her voice soft and lilting, singing lyrics that seemed to resonate with everyone in the room:

*"In the quiet of the night, we find our peace,
Through the echoes of the past, we seek release.
With every note, with every sound,
We lift our spirits, we stand our ground."*

The words were simple, but they carried weight. I found myself closing my eyes, letting the music wash over me, feeling it in my chest, in the steady beat of the drum, in the delicate strum of the occasional cord. It was a feeling of unity, of being part of something larger than myself, of finding strength in the collective sound we were creating.

After a while, Rachel began to slow the tempo, signaling the end of the improvised piece. The music gradually faded, each instrument falling silent until only the echo of the last note lingered in the air. When I opened my eyes, I saw that I wasn't the only one who had been deeply affected. There were tears in some eyes, smiles on others, but most of all, there was a shared sense of calm, a collective exhale that seemed to release some of the tension we all carried.

Rachel put down her guitar and looked around the circle, her eyes soft with understanding. "Music has a way of bringing us together," she said. "It can express what we can't, and sometimes, it can help us process things that are too painful to face directly. How did that feel for everyone?"

There were a few murmurs of agreement, heads nodding. Mike, who had been so stoic during the art therapy session, spoke up. "It's like... I don't know, like I could let go of some of the anger. Just for a minute."

Beth nodded. "I felt... connected. To all of you. Like we were saying something important, even if we weren't speaking."

I realized that I felt something similar. The music had allowed me to express feelings I hadn't even fully understood were there. It wasn't a miracle cure, but it was something—an outlet, a way to channel the pain that was so often overwhelming.

When it was my turn to speak, I kept it simple. "It helped. I didn't think it would, but it did."

Rachel smiled, a genuine, warm expression that made me feel seen. "I'm glad. Music can be a powerful tool, especially when words fail. Remember, this is just one way to process what you're going through. There's no right or wrong way to heal."

The session ended with a final piece, a quiet, reflective melody that Rachel played as we all sat in silence. It was a fitting end, a gentle closing to an experience that had, in its own way, brought a little more light into the darkness we were all trying to navigate.

As we left the room, I felt a strange sense of lightness, as if some of the heaviness that had been weighing on me had been lifted, even if just a little. There was still a long road ahead, but in that moment, I felt like I wasn't walking it alone.